


Fairy Lights And Festive Nights

by Stairre



Series: Love Bites (But So Do I) [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I swear this is mostly fluff but the characters briefly discuss some heavy topics, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Depression, Implied/Referenced Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Police Brutality, Implied/Referenced Vehicular Accidents, M/M, More Christmas as a cultural event than as a religious holiday though, Past Drug Addiction, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28244817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stairre/pseuds/Stairre
Summary: “If you were human, you’d probably die doing this. And you’d completely deserve it,” Drift says, crossing his arms, more to ward off the chill than anything, as he watches Rodimus string fairy lights up around his balcony, perched more than a little perilously on the ice-cold bars.---Or: Drift has some baggage around the whole idea of Christmas, Rodimus leaps on the chance to spoil his boyfriend, Minimus gets bullied again, and a Christmas fic in which none of the characters are Christian (and only one of them is culturally Christian) happens.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Series: Love Bites (But So Do I) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1993855
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	Fairy Lights And Festive Nights

**Love Bites (But So Do I)**

**Fairy Lights And Festive Nights**

–

“If you were human, you’d probably die doing this. And you’d completely deserve it,” Drift says, crossing his arms, more to ward off the chill than anything, as he watches Rodimus string fairy lights up around his balcony, perched more than a little perilously on the ice-cold bars.

Rodimus sniggers, balancing with utterly inhuman grace on the slippery metal, lights wrapped around one fist as he continues to string them up. “Reckon I’d get into the Darwin Awards?” he asks.

“I think they were made for you.” Drift shivers in place, looking out across the lights of the city at night from the view Rodimus has on his 12th floor apartment. Rodimus lives in the area down from the main suburbs, closer to the city centre, but there’s a bit of geographical height still, in comparison to the main drag of down-town. Enough for his balcony to have a good view of a whole lot of building roofs, which is still better than Drift’s smoke-stained alley wall, so he’s not complaining.

“So mean,” Rodimus sighs theatrically, looping the last of the lights around the TV satellite dish bolted to the wall, and hopping down from the bars of the balcony. It’s probably a good thing that they decided to do this at night – Rodimus isn’t exactly hiding his inhuman nature very well. “’Kay, let’s see what they look like.”

Drift steps back inside the sliding door, leaning down to flick on the switch at the socket just inside. The fairy lights turn on, bright multi-coloured stars on a string, draped around the door and bars of the balcony, the lead trailing inside at the floor, thin enough for the doors to be closed with the lights still turned on. Usually, Rodimus keeps a draught excluder – tartan patterned, for some reason – along the bottom, keeping out the cold air. The apartment building was built sometime in the eighties, so it’s not _too bad,_ but there are definitely some things that could stand with updating.

“Nice,” Rodimus says, a grin on his face.

Drift nods in agreement. “Just a few sets more to de-tangle,” he says.

Rodimus groans at that. “Every year,” he complains. “Every damn year I tell myself I won’t just shove them in the same box when I take them down, that I’ll put elastic bands or something around them, wind them into coils. And every year I pull them out and have to fight the spaghetti monster again.”

“You do only seem to have lights,” Drift says. It’s true: Rodimus has something like five or six sets of lights on strings – not bad for a person who primarily lives alone and therefore lives in properties designed for a person to live in them alone – but no other decorations, Christmas or otherwise.

“Don’t actually celebrate Christmas,” Rodimus shrugs. “I just like the lights. Think they look cool.”

“Makes sense,” Drift says, shivering again. “Come on, let’s go back inside. I know you’re not cold, but I am, and looking at you wearing nothing but a t-shirt is only making me colder.”

–

“Do you celebrate Christmas, Drift?” Minimus asks from across the dining table, reaching out for the pepper grinder in the middle.

“Not Christian,” Drift answers, cutting into his own medium-rare steak. Minimus and Rodimus’ steaks are both rare – and by _rare_ Drift means _completely raw and bloody with only the lightest searing possible –_ and they’ve both forgone the vegetables that Drift has on the side of his plate. Rodimus did partake of the chips, but Minimus has literally only the steak on his plate, apparently now comfortable enough with Drift to not pretend polite humanity.

“Considering the current position of the holiday within the pre-dominantly Christian socio-cultural psyche of this country, I do not believe that is a definitive answer,” Minimus says, taking a sip of his blood, delicate and refined, and placing the wine glass back down with only the lightest clink.

“Er, Mags,” Rodimus puts in quickly, “maybe Drift doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Minimus blinks, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him, before looking contrite. “I apologise, Drift,” he says gravely, if somewhat awkwardly, “I have over-stepped. Whatever religious practices you partake of are not my business.”

“It’s fine,” Drift says, fiddling with his knife and fork, “I’m not offended.”

Minimus nods at him, before abruptly changing the subject. “Are you doing anything for the winter solstice this year?” he asks, directing his question towards Rodimus.

“Ehh, probably not,” Rodimus says. “Might light a candle, maybe put out some wine and incense, but it’s not going to be big. You know I’m not a massive celebrator on that side. I just like the whole hanging out with people thing that happens around this time of year.”

Minimus hums, nodding. “You are welcome to drop by that night if you so wish,” he says. “Though, please, give me _some_ amount of notice if you do.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Rodimus says, raising and taking a mouthful from his own wine glass full of blood. He doesn’t expand on that.

Drift and Rodimus go home earlier than usual that evening, but it is more due to the fact that Minimus receives an unexpected private call from Dominus – who’s in a time zone several hours behind – than anything else.

–

“Do you want one?” Rodimus asks quietly when he catches Drift lingering a little too long next to the Christmas trees on sale at the garden centre to pass as casual curiosity. “We can get one, you know.”

Drift clenches his jaw a little, but – he takes a deep breath, holds it, exhales, and says, “No.” His voice is even.

Rodimus clearly disbelieves him, but doesn’t press. They take their purchases – among them an aloe vera plant Drift is getting for Ratchet’s office, and a llama-shaped watering can Rodimus saw and immediately put into their basket, even though neither of them own house plants – up to the counter.

Drift pointedly refuses to look back around, at where the trees are lined up outside, some in netting already and some not. He’s too old for this now, he tells himself.

–

The wind is battering against the window outside, there’s a film neither of them are actually watching playing on low in the background, and Rodimus is kissing a lazy trail over Drift’s collarbones, more contentedness than arousal in the air, his hands running along Drift’s arms, the old track marks laid bare, when Drift blurts out, “I was born addicted.”

Rodimus pauses, cool lips still resting against soft skin, and Drift flushes with embarrassment. “Sorry,” Drift says. “That was – sorry.”

“No, no,” Rodimus says, leaning back, “go on. Er – if you want to.”

Drift shifts so that he’s sitting up rather than lying down, resting his back against the arm of the sofa. He rubs his arm awkwardly, the pads of his fingers catching on the old scars that litter them. “Sorry,” he says again. “This – it sort of has to do with the Christmas thing.” There’s a lot Drift wants to get off his chest, and – why not now?

Rodimus catches his hands in his, holding them, raising them up and kissing Drift’s palms. “You can tell me anything,” he says. “No judgement here.”

Drift considers that a moment – Rodimus is _old,_ and has lived through much more bloodshed than Drift has, a lot of it at his own hands. Drift doesn’t know details, but – Rodimus has drunk the blood of humans for years, and there’s no way he hasn’t killed someone at some point, through that or something else. He’s a predator, and Drift knows that while Rodimus has pretty good control on his more violent instincts, they are undoubtedly still there, intrinsic in the DNA that got rewritten when he was turned.

“Born addicted,” Drift repeats, finally. “Mum was an addict, too, and – look. I loved her, but you know how some people just shouldn’t be parents? Even if she wasn’t high out of her mind half the time and drunk the other half, she’d not have made World’s Best Mum. Just – she didn’t have the care or the want. She didn’t want a child, she just got saddled with one, and she didn’t know what to do. She tried – I can appreciate that she tried to the best of her limited ability – but some people are just not made to be parents, and no judgement upon them for being that way, and she was one of them.”

Drift removes his hands from Rodimus’, picks at one of his scars, eyes down. “I loved her, and she was my mum, but she wasn’t a _good_ mum,” he says. “Got removed from her care when I was nine. Anonymous tip to social services.”

Drift hesitates a moment, eyes lingering on the rough pads of his fingers, and he knows that he could stop there, and it would be enough context for his views of Christmas to make sense, but. He _wants_ to spill out the rest to Rodimus – though he knows that if he starts he won’t stop ‘til he’s said all he wants to say.

He looks up at Rodimus – his boyfriend’s eyes are blue and bright and gentle. More gentle than any would expect of such a dangerous person. Drift swallows.

“I know I’ll never know for sure,” he admits softly, “but I’m _certain_ it was her dealer who made the call. He was nice to me. Some – sometimes she’d bring me with her to his apartment, get high in the spare room, and he’d sit next to me at the coffee table and help me with my homework. He had – he had a dog, I remember that, some poodle mix, and he’d let me feed her what was probably too many dog treats because I liked playing with her.”

Rodimus takes Drift’s hands in his again, and only when he pulls them away to reveal the sore red making Drift’s old track marks stand out stark and pale does Drift realise how close he came to breaking skin. Drift sighs, leans in, forehead pressing against Rodimus’ shoulder.

“Got bounced from house to house and school to school,” he says into Rodimus’ t-shirt. “I was an angry child, a scared one, and hooked on heroin besides. Cold turkey doesn’t really work when you’re ten years old and screaming through the withdrawal symptoms.” Drifts mouth twists. “Ended up in this awful place when I was twelve, and – I ran away. Trust me, the streets were better than that house. Fell in with gangs and shit. Gasket pulled me outta that, mostly. He was – you’d have liked Gasket. He was a good man. He… meant a lot to me.”

Rodimus kisses Drift’s cheek, running his hands up and down Drift’s back. Drift stutters for a moment, closes his eyes tightly, and says, “And then the fucking _police_ shot him. He wasn’t even doin’ nothin’. He just – had the misfortune to be a black man standing at the wrong place at the wrong time. Right in front of me. I got taken in as a witness, did nothing but swear and curse and I think I even went for one of them with my fists. But, y’know. Young, white, looked like a little girl. Slap on the wrist at best. Packed back off to the system again, and this time I was _meaner.”_

Drift wipes the back of his hand over his eyes, shifting so that he’s sitting in Rodimus’ lap, watery eyes actually meeting Rodimus’ face rather than his neck. “Got lucky,” he says softly. “This guy named Wing took me in, and fuck if that man didn’t have the patience of a saint. He put up with all of my bullshit. He – he _believed in me._ No one else ever had, other than Gasket. He helped me study, raise my grades, retake exams. He supported me through breaking my addiction slowly; he would hold me when I was high, make sure I was safe. I stayed in his house all through nursing school – he didn’t kick me out the instant I turned eighteen. I still call him every couple of weeks. I – I don’t have a mum or a dad to introduce you to. But I do have Wing.”

“I look forward to meeting him,” Rodimus says, gently but honestly. “Sounds like a great guy.”

“He is, but you might have to wait a bit,” Drift answers, relieved. Both that Rodimus is still listening, his hands still gentle, not going cold or unwelcoming like some do when Drift admits to his troubled past, but also that he seems to want to meet someone Drift holds dear, to get deeper into Drift’s life. “He’s an archaeologist – out in Egypt on a dig right now. And before you ask, they work with the local government and museums. None of the artefacts get taken out of country.”

“Good, good,” Rodimus hums. “Er. I’m feeling a distinct lack of Ratchet in this story, and you said you’d known him for a long time – where does he come in?”

“Met him while I was on the streets,” Drift shrugs, going for nonchalant, knowing he’s not quite making it. “His clinic was open to all. He knew me when I was running with gangs, but he also knew me when Gasket pulled me out of that. I turned up at his door for a nursing placement a few years later, nervous as all hell, and he – he actually cried – he’d thought I was dead. I swear, he walked around the clinic all of that placement puffed up and proud – and he was. He was _so proud_ that the kid on a fast-track to either prison or face-down in a muddy ditch had ended up a nurse instead. When I finished school, he was there and waiting with a job offer, and I took it.”

“And now here you are,” Rodimus says, pressing the pads of his thumbs underneath Drift’s eyes, drying the last of the tears. He leans in, kisses Drift’s lips chastely, and says, “You’ve been so strong.”

Drift swallows, shrugs it off awkwardly. “I don’t really think of it all like that,” he says. “It was just – life. I kept getting’ knocked down, but I didn’t really choose to get back up as much as decide not to stay on the ground. Amounts to the same thing in the end, I suppose. And I didn’t do it alone.”

Rodimus hums. “Not to sound like a background character from a B-list coming-of-age film,” he says slowly, “but when you get to my age, you really do realise that most people _don’t do it alone._ When edgy bastards say stuff like ‘you’re born alone and you die alone’, they really don’t know what they’re talking about. At the most basic level, if an infant is left alone, _they die._ Right from birth, you are cared for. Sometimes not _loved,_ and that is a tragedy, but someone set aside a lot of time – at _least_ a couple of years – to ensure that the little baby who can’t even hold their own head up initially doesn’t starve.”

Rodimus looks at Drift to make sure he’s still following, pausing momentarily. Drift nods at him to continue.

“It’s not – life is painful, sometimes, and can be lonely.” The echoing depth in Rodimus’ tone betrays centuries of experience with that, his blue eyes shadowed for a moment. “But it is very, _very_ rare for someone to be truly alone, even if it’s just the local baker who knows their order, or the neighbour who silently thinks their roses are pretty, or the old friend who still keeps their number in their contact list. People don’t exist in a vacuum. And overcoming hardship with help doesn’t make you _weaker_ or some shit like that than overcoming hardship _alone._ And, like you said, most people don’t think of living through these things as _fighting._ It’s just life, _their life,_ and they just live it.”

Drift reaches out, places his own hands on Rodimus’ face, in a mirror of just a couple of minutes ago. He doesn’t say anything – there’s not much to say – but Rodimus closes his eyes and leans into his touch, turning his cheek to Drift’s palm. “Got a bit of experience with that kinda sadness,” he admits finally.

_Depression,_ Drift tags it in his head. Rodimus smiles a lot – laughs, like in that cliché saying, like no one is listening – but neither of those things outweigh the days that Rodimus gets sad for no discernible reason other than the weight of his centuries, maybe even his millennia, pressing down on him. Drift might not have the same sheer breadth of life experience that Rodimus has, but he’s been there, too, and Rodimus knows it.

“I have more good days than bad, a lot of the time, nowadays,” Drift says, quiet, offering it up with no expectation of answer, but welcoming one to slide into the opening he’s parted, if Rodimus wants to. He’s opened up a fair bit this evening, and, yeah, he wants a bit of reciprocation, but he doesn’t want it more than he wants Rodimus to be comfortable.

Rodimus smiles, fangs glinting in the light, blue eyes softening. For such a generally young-looking man, he has quite deep crow’s feet creasing his eyelids. “So do I,” he says. “The worst of it – it’s passed. It lives in my heart, and I won’t lie that I backslide some decades, but just because it lives in me doesn’t mean it has to control me.”

Drift nods in agreement, pressing his lips to Rodimus’. The kiss doesn’t deepen, but Drift lets his hands fall from Rodimus’ face to wrap them around his middle instead. Rodimus follows suit, and then they’re sitting nearly in each other’s laps on the sofa, embracing. Rodimus smells a bit like the lemon-scented soap he uses, hidden just beneath the spice of his cologne.

“I – I love it, that sadness,” Rodimus admits quietly. “I cradle it and comfort it, but I try not to let it take the reigns. I bring it in from the cold, because it’s so frozen it’s numb, and can’t feel how bad the cold is for it, and the warmth is scary, and a part of it wants to stay cold forever. De-thawing _hurts,_ but to stay outside is to die. Shelter warms and shelter heals.” Rodimus huffs out a wet laugh. “Heh, look at me, all philosophical. Pinch me before I spawn a pair of glasses and a tweed jacket; tweed looks awful on me.”

It all sounds very familiar, but Drift is ready to end this now, feeling a bit raw himself, and by the restlessness now shifting beneath Rodimus’ skin, he is too.

Drift pinches him on the side. Rodimus laughs for real this time, still a little wet, but earnest, and they leave the conversation there.

–

Later, still on the sofa, the unwatched film’s credits scrolling on the screen, Drift says into Rodimus’ chest, “So. About Christmas.”

“Hm?” Rodimus strokes one hand through Drift’s hair, dark curls catching on his fingers. It’s in need of a cut, but all the hairdressers around are booked solid until the new year, so Drift’s resigned to a wait. “Yeah, we never quite got to that part, did we?”

Drift shifts his weight a little. It feels a little awkward to start up again now that the flow of earlier is gone, but he does it anyway. “We didn’t,” he stalls, trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say. “So, er. Christmas was – not really a thing I got to enjoy as a kid…”

Drift trails off, grimacing at the awkward wording. Rodimus’ fingernails begin to rub small circles at the base of his skull, the way he does when Drift gets headaches – an after-effect of a bad head injury he took when he still ran with gangs, one that still haunts him now, over a decade after the incident – silently encouraging him to continue.

“I mean…” Drift starts again. “My mum – tried. She did _try._ I guess we were a Christian family? Twice-a-year Christians, I suppose: sometimes she’d remember to drag us both out to church on Christmas and Easter, but never any other time, and there was a vague sort of _God exists, He loves us, blah, blah, blah_ kinda background thing threading through, but I would definitely call myself far more _culturally Christian_ than actually Christian.”

Drift rubs a hand against his face self-consciously. Rodimus’ beliefs tend more towards the pagan side, he’s picked up, though his boyfriend is definitely not a strict practitioner. He’s also not quite sure of the specifics of what Rodimus believes, but whatever it is, it’s not got much of anything to do with the Bible.

“She never made me pray, though I think I tried a couple of times,” Drift admits, “but words spoken to the air don’t make empty stomachs full, so I guess I stopped practising pretty quick. Don’t really remember. Don’t know whether I believe in Him, and even if I did believe He exists, I’m not sure I’d worship Him.”

“Plenty of people like that,” Rodimus comments softly, his words filling a natural pause in the conversation, not interrupting Drift and not redirecting the topic, just – putting in his observations.

Drift nods in agreement. “I think there’s a lot of people out there who might put down _Christian_ on official forms and stuff, but are really far more _this is what I was raised with_ than _this is what I believe._ Just my thoughts, I guess.”

Rodimus scratches his fingernails into the base of Drift’s head, catching on his hair. “Religion’s changed a hell of a lot in all the time I’ve been – around,” he says. “Things are tending now towards a more scientific approach to the world – not that that’s bad or anything! – but there’s a lot more… spiritual awareness than religious awareness? If that makes sense. These things are cyclical.”

“I can believe that,” Drift hums. “So Christmas was kind of a thing, but we never had a tree, or lights, or stuff like that. She’d get – if she remembered – one of those roast-in-the-bag chickens for Christmas day, and everything else was from the supermarket’s freezer section. We always spent it alone – I’ve never met my grandparents, don’t know if they’re _alive,_ don’t even know their _names_. I’d get a small gift, sometimes, cheap and easy, but – ”

Drift sighs, cutting himself off and rubbing his face. “I don’t know if I’m just being childish,” he admits, “but for everyone else I knew, Christmas was always this massive affair, and they’d come back into school after the holidays and brag about all the presents they got, and I’d have nothing to say. Guess it really is selfish, putting it like that, but – it was supposed to _mean_ something, was supposed to _be_ something, and for me it just – never was. I suppose these things hurt when you’re a kid, and you’re outside looking in and you don’t really understand _why_. _”_

Rodimus wraps his arms around Drift’s back and pulls him in, tucking his face into his neck. “What about later?” he asks. “After her?”

Drift shrugs. “When I was bouncing around, the kids always got a little thing, but – and I know I’m gonna sound so ungrateful here – it was always something like socks or a pair of gloves or something like that. Again, it’s childish, but socks don’t win you playground bragging points, and they’re kinda disappointing to get when you’re that age.”

“No kid appreciates socks for Christmas,” Rodimus agrees. “It’s not childish, or selfish. It was supposed to be a holiday for you. It’s not wrong to wish that you had good memories of it.”

Drift closes his eyes. If there’s a bit of moisture gathering at them, Rodimus won’t call it out. “Gasket took me to the aquarium once,” he says. “Don’t know how he got the tickets, but we spent hours there. I was – thirteen, fourteen? I’d never been. There was this seal soft toy in the gift shop, but we didn’t have any money to spare, so I told Gasket I was too old for it when he asked if I wanted it. We split our sandwiches for a good couple weeks after, ‘cause we couldn’t afford more, but that was the best Christmas I had, I swear.”

Rodimus’ brow furrows a little. “What about Wing?”

“Doesn’t celebrate,” Drift answers. “I think he’s more towards your side of the belief spectrum, but he kept it private, and I never asked. To be fair to him, if I’d said I wanted to, he woulda gone all-out – Wing never does half-measures. But by that point I was nursing too much baggage over the whole concept, and I was terrified of seeming too greedy when Wing was already doing so much for me. In hindsight, I was afraid for no reason, but I didn’t say anything at the time and I feel kinda awkward trying to say something now. So. Yeah. I think that’s about it.”

Rodimus absorbs that, letting the quiet fall down on them like a warm blanket. The TV is still murmuring in the background, the fairy lights strung up everywhere still fade in and out of their different colour settings, and Drift is warm and tired in his arms, vulnerable and human, his heart spilt on the sofa cushions they’re sitting on.

“… What do you want to do?” Rodimus asks, finally. “We can celebrate, if you want, I promise I’m not gonna be offended even if you start praying to the Christian god in here. I’m more of a general spiritual practitioner than someone who works with specific gods. We can get a tree, some decorations, I’ve got a freezer with only blood bags in it, I can clear some room. We can do presents and stuff… I mean. If you want to.”

Drift breathes in, breathes out, loud next to Rodimus’ still chest. He thinks about it, a nervous energy threading through him. It’s – is that what he wants? He doesn’t even know. It’s an idea, he supposes.

“Can we… can we give it a go?” he asks, finally.

Rodimus grins.

–

Three days later, Drift wonders what kind of monster he might have accidently unleashed.

When Rodimus said they’d do Christmas, Drift had been picturing something like, oh, he doesn’t know, a small tree? Some cheap decorations? Maybe a couple of gifts to give to each other? Not – not _this._

“What’cha think?” Rodimus asks, gesturing dramatically at the huge tree shoved into the corner of his living room, too tall for the ceiling and bending at the top, pine needles all over the carpet. It’s tall, it’s wide, and it’s just so very _Rodimus._

“Where did you even buy it?” Drift responds instead, eyeing the massive tree up and down, before turning his attention to the piles of boxes taking up the rest of the room. His keys are still between his fingers, coat and bag still on, blinking at Rodimus as he walks in from his shift, skipping over going to his own apartment entirely because Rodimus had texted him during his break to invite him here instead. “What’s in those?”

“Decorations,” Rodimus says, stepping over to one and opening it up. He pulls out a plastic container with a set of twelve baubles inside, and they’re _nice,_ very definitely not the cheap ones that would transfer glitter everywhere, and Drift thinks they might even be made of either glass or resin. “You like?”

“How much did you _pay_ for these?” Drift asks, picking his way across the room, shoving his keys into his pocket and leaning over the same open box, taking out a carved robin made of different woods, something pale for the body, something darker for the breast, glass beads for eyes. It looks like the sort of decoration people keep, that gets handed down through families. Drift trails his fingers along it – sanded smooth, but the detail on the feathers is incredible – and looks at the tag. _Handmade,_ and the price makes him wince.

“Don’t worry about that,” Rodimus waves off. “I’ve got savings, quite a few years of them. They’re not going to any better use.”

Drift considers that. “What does your bank think of that?” he asks. “Do you fake your death and leave everything to yourself every few decades or something?”

Rodimus laughs. “No, no,” he says, and his eyes are bright, so bright, as he smiles at Drift. “We’ve got a bank for, er, people like me, who live longer than most.”

“… Please tell me it’s not run by goblins,” Drift says.

“Nope,” Rodimus says, and that’s his gleeful mischievous voice, Drift recognises it well. “Dragons, actually.”

Drift opens his mouth, closes it, thinks _dragons?_ somewhat hysterically, because vampires are one thing, but actual _dragons_ are another. “Are you serious?”

“As a shot in the head,” Rodimus chirps.

“… Well, moving away from the topic of me having to rearrange my world-view yet again,” Drift decides to divert, “why is there _so much_ here?”

Rodimus pulls Drift in for a kiss, hands on his hips, clutching him close. “This is important to you,” he says. “You’re mine, and you deserve the best.”

Drift can’t help but smile at that – he’s fully willing to admit to himself that he likes Rodimus’ possessive nature. A _jealous_ nature would be another matter, but Rodimus _respects him,_ and as long as he keeps doing so, then he and Drift won’t have problems. “This is quite a lot, though.”

Rodimus shrugs. “Once it’s all up, it won’t be so bad,” he says. “You know what packaging’s like these days. Then this place will look good enough for us – half lights, half baubles, half tinsel, and half presents.”

“That’s two-hundred per cent,” Drift grins.

“Well, I always put double the effort into everything.”

–

They visit Minimus on the night before the winter solstice, bringing takeaway pizza with them. Rodimus and Drift eat it with their hands – the _proper way,_ Rodimus chides Minimus – while Minimus actually uses the knife and fork laid out on the table.

“Where’s Dominus?” Rodimus asks, hastily catching a string of melted cheese on his fingers, saving Minimus’ expensive-looking table cloth from a greasy fate. “I thought he and Rewind were coming to stay with you for a couple of weeks.”

“They are out having a date night,” Minimus replies, carefully sawing into his meat feast with extra spiced sausage. “I believe that they – might have met someone.”

Rodimus perks up. “Oh? Do tell! C’mon, Mags, you gotta _spill.”_

Minimus sighs. “I believe his name is Chromedome,” he says thoughtfully, thinking back. “He’s a remnant of some kind, if I recall correctly. Rewind seemed enamoured enough, and Dominus is understanding like that. They have been together a long time, and do not doubt each other’s fidelity. We will see where this goes, if anywhere.”

Rodimus nods. “Holiday romance, anyone?” he says, grinning. Minimus clicks his tongue. “Aw, c’mon, you were thinking it, too!”

Minimus shakes his head, huffing, but nowhere in his body language is any sign that he is anything other than amusedly exasperated. “I must admit, I’ve never met a remnant before,” he comments.

“Remnant?” Drift asks quietly.

Minimus glances over. “A type of spirit-born being,” he answers. “Created from long-lingering echoes of some strong emotion, usually negative since those sink into buildings and the energy of places deeper and for longer. Places like old prisons, or houses where tragedies happened and such, those tend to birth them. They’re quite rare, though. I do not know Chromedome’s story, and it is his own to tell besides, but they can be quite powerful if they want to be – emotions and intentions are two of the bases of magic, you know.”

Drift nods along, even though this conversation is now flying a bit over his head. “Well, my best wishes to them,” he says.

Later, when they’re getting ready to leave, Drift sees Minimus pull Rodimus aside for a moment and speak to him too low for Drift to hear. He politely looks away, since it seems private, and so misses the parcel Minimus presses into Rodimus’ hands, which disappears into a pocket too small to outwardly hold it.

“Have a pleasant solstice,” Minimus says, seeing them off at the door, “and a Christmas that is merry.”

Drift glances back in surprise, but Minimus is already shutting the door, and he doesn’t manage to catch his eyes before dark wood obscures him from view.

–

“They will _not_ let you sit on Santa’s knee,” Drift says, amused, as Rodimus points out the attraction in the bottom floor of the shopping mall.

“Spoil-sport,” Rodimus whines, but his face his stretching in a grin that’s really far too sharp for such a public place. In the corner of his eye, Drift sees a teenage girl do a double-take before carefully increasing the berth of space between them and her. “Reckon he’d do it if we got him a coffee? He’s looking tired under that fake beard.”

“You – you can’t _bribe Santa!”_ Drift is laughing before he knows it, and then standing in a queue with his boyfriend to buy some far-too-expensive Christmas special limited-offer cup of takeaway coffee from the Starbucks that’s up one level.

Rodimus’ impish grin gets them past the security guy, and it turns out that, yes, Santa (or, at least, this particular Santa) _will_ let an apparent-adult carefully perch on his knee if he’s getting coffee out of it. The parents milling around are laughing, and so is Drift, but Rodimus walks away triumphantly with a miniature LEGO set, ripping the snowflake printed wrapping paper off before they’re even out of the area that’s been barricaded off for Santa’s Grotto.

Drift sends a candid photo of it to Minimus on his phone.

The reply he gets back is a GIF of someone laughing, followed by a thumbs up emoji, and is signed with – _ **R,**_ so that’s presumably Rewind. Drift isn’t sure Minimus even knows what a GIF is.

–

Christmas Eve, Drift gets called into work.

“Pile up on the south-bound motorway,” he tells Rodimus as he shrugs on his coat as fast as possible. “But half the main hospital’s undergoing refurbishments, and the other half just doesn’t have enough beds for non-critical patients. We’re taking some of the excess – Dr Ratchet wants all hands on deck – he says he’s sorry. I’m – I’ll hopefully be back by tonight, but it might be late, maybe even early morning. I’m sorry, I know we had plans – but – ”

“But you’re a nurse and people’s lives come first,” Rodimus finishes. “Don’t worry, it’ll all still be here later. Go, sweetheart, I promise I’ve got the fort held down here.”

“Thank you,” Drift says, earnestly, if distractedly, checking his pockets for his phone, his keys, his wallet. His very few relationships prior to Rodimus had always seemed to fall apart once something like this happened, when partners realised that plans sometimes came secondary to his work. Rodimus has been good about it so far, so surely Drift can have hope, right? “See you later.”

Rodimus kisses his cheek and practically shoves him out the door, Drift already jogging down the hallway to the stairs. He doesn’t look back, mind already whirling through the fastest route to the clinic from Rodimus’ apartment.

–

Drift drags himself back in at some god-awful hour of the morning – 02:54 a.m. his mobile tells him when he squints at its too-bright glow. He should have gone back to his own place, it’s closer to the clinic, should have texted Rodimus to let him know he’d swing by in the morning instead.

But Drift’s here instead, fumbling with the security PIN on the door to the building Rodimus’ flat is in, a much nicer place than Drift’s, and stepping inside. A wave of heat washes over him, the December chill practically thawing from him with every step, his nose and ears cold and red, his fingertips tingling. The entrance area is empty, and dim, only the backlit panels lining the tops of the walls switched on. Drift skips the lift entirely, even though he knows it would mean less walking. He _hates_ small spaces, and standing inside a lift when he doesn’t have to is not his idea of a good time.

The stairwell is dark and shadowed, and Drift ascends slowly, his steps heavy. He’s still wearing scrubs underneath, his normal clothes left in his locker at work, but that’s fine, he’ll pick them up in a couple of days, Dr Ratchet won’t care as long as they’re not in anybody’s way…

Rodimus opens the door before Drift’s even knocked on it, before Drift’s in front of it, even, still halfway down the hall.

“Hey, babe,” Rodimus whispers quietly, mindful of his neighbours. “C’mon, let’s get you in.”

Drift lets Rodimus shuffle him into his apartment, lets him take off his bag and coat, lets him push him in the direction of a hot bath, already drawn for him. There’s a fruity-scented bubble bath foaming the water, and a candle lit on the side that smells like – like _Christmas –_ all spiced cinnamon and apple and stuff.

Drift manages to strip by himself, but he does let Rodimus scrub his back and repeatedly squeeze a wet flannel’s warm water over him, his boyfriend’s cold fingers warmed in the hot water, pressing against his aches and pains. It’s not – there’s nothing sexual here, this is a different kind of intimacy, and Drift just doesn’t know how he’d ever lived without it, that wide-open trust in someone else, enough to be naked and wet and tired in their home, entirely vulnerable, and still feel nothing but loved as Rodimus encourages him to lie back in the bath and tip his head back, wetting his hair for the shampoo Rodimus is already lathering into his hands.

Later, Drift lets Rodimus dry him with a radiator-warmed towel, and bundle him into his bed. _You’ve wrapped me up like a burrito,_ goes through Drift’s head, but doesn’t quite make it to his vocal chords. Rodimus puts a smaller towel on the pillow so that Drift’s damp hair doesn’t make it wet, and presses a pair of pyjamas Drift’s left here before into his hands.

By the time Drift’s phone – still in his bag, sitting on the sofa, unseen – reads 03:37 a.m., Drift is asleep, Rodimus lying next to him silently, awake as only a vampire can be, reading a slightly-battered book in the darkness with eye-sight too sharp to be human. Drift rests on, unafraid.

–

Drift blinks awake, eyes crusty, shoulders aching, at some time between nine and ten in the morning.

“Good morning, sleepy-head,” Rodimus says next to him, sitting up properly from where he’d been leaning against the headboard, playing on his phone. “Merry Christmas!”

It takes Drift’s mind a moment to catch up. “Oh,” he says, before rubbing his face, wiping away the crust from his eyelids. “What time is it?”

“Presents time,” Rodimus answers, grinning. “I know you were too tired to clock them last night – well, this morning – but there just might be some stuff for you out there. _Juuusst_ a few things.”

“Let me get dressed first,” Drift says, shoving off the duvet and standing with far too many clicks for a body that is ostensibly in its prime. “Then we’ll do presents.”

Rodimus whines, complaining good-naturedly, but Drift sticks it out ‘til he’s pulled on clean underwear, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a jumper with a T-Rex wearing a Santa hat on it. Rodimus had seen it, and had _not_ been able to resist.

Drift walks into the living room, stops dead, and says, “Rodimus. Just how much did you _buy?”_

“Just a few things,” Rodimus repeats, unrepentant.

“This is… _not_ the definition of ‘just a few things,’” Drift says, eyes wide as he gazes upon the pile tucked under their poor squashed tree.

“Okay, so I might have gone a bit overboard,” Rodimus admits. “But just think about it! You gave me open permission to spoil you – what else did you expect?”

Drift doesn’t actually have an answer for that – he _knows_ what Rodimus is like, so really he shouldn’t be all that surprised. Rodimus is the definition of _give an inch and he’ll take a mile,_ someone categorically unable to not throw himself into anything he does with everything he has.

He’s attentive, in a way that Drift is still getting used to, and so far Drift has never wanted for anything in all their acquaintance – attention or space, a listening ear or a distracting babble, understanding or respected boundaries. That’s not to say that Rodimus hasn’t made mistakes, of course – he’s a vampire, not omniscient – but nothing that’s not been solved by a conversation and an apology, sometimes mutual, because it’s not like Drift is free from error, either.

So, when Drift talked about Christmas, and embarrassedly spilt about old desires of once – just _once –_ getting to be the one who got spoilt, who got presents, who went to bed with a full stomach and no lingering bitterness or loneliness… well. He really should have expected Rodimus to leap on the chance, even with the time constraint. It’s not like his boyfriend has made _secret_ of his vampiric instincts to protect and provide – and the way he’s been keeping a lock on them to not go faster than Drift is comfortable with.

Beneath their tree laden with far more ornaments than Drift is sure they can actually store after the holidays are over, a veritable menagerie of presents are placed. It honestly looks like a tree that belongs in a house that has at least two or three kids, plus the parents, in it, not an apartment with only two adults, one of whom _knows_ that he has only bought a couple of things for the other.

“I… haven’t gotten you nearly as much,” Drift says, embarrassed, and knowing he shouldn’t be ashamed, but having the sensation curdle in his belly anyway. He has gotten gifts – a couple for Rodimus, one for Minimus, something for Dominus and Rewind whom he’s not yet managed to meet, but Minimus had advised, and it had only seemed polite. Ratchet’s already got the new plant, and Drift hadn’t couched it in terms of Christmas, of course, but Ratchet had taken it home instead of putting it in his office like Drift expected, and had texted Drift a photo of it next to the lit menorah on his windowsill.

Rodimus comes closer, takes one of Drift’s hands in his. “It’s not about that,” he says. “Look – I _knew_ when I was getting stuff that I wouldn’t be getting nearly as much, but, Drift, it’s really not about that. Whatever you’ve got me will be thoughtful, will be from the heart, I know you. I didn’t – this wasn’t meant as one-upmanship, I swear. I just kept seeing stuff I wanted to get you.” He ruffles his hair self-consciously, gripping Drift’s hand a little tighter. “ _Please_ don’t be embarrassed, it wasn’t my intent.”

Drift squeezes back. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. But – maybe not quite so much next time?”

Rodimus relaxes, his smile coming back. “Sure,” he agrees. “Maybe I did get a bit excited.”

Drift nods, and walks through the room, ducking into the kitchen to flick on the coffee maker. He can hear Rodimus shuffling about behind him as he pulls down the mugs from the cupboard – one from a standard set of four, with a normal repeating pattern of waves on the rim, and the other is old and slightly chipped, dark blue with the _Hot Wheels_ logo emblazoned on the side. That one’s Rodimus’, and he insists on keeping it, even though the handle’s had to be glued back on twice.

Coffee obtained, Drift comes back in and sits down on the sofa, passing Rodimus’ his in exchange for the first present his boyfriend is bringing to him. He takes a sip from his mug and puts it on the small side table, taking the present into his lap. To the side, Rodimus has another in his hand that he puts between the side of his leg and the arm of the sofa, on the farthest side from Drift.

“This one last,” Rodimus says, seeing Drift’s look as he curls up next to him, leaning on his shoulder.

Drift internally shrugs. The present in his hands, when he unwraps it, turns out to be a leather cuff bracelet, the beads on the braided strap going blue-green-blue-green-blue, and – Drift remembers, suddenly, holding it in his fingers, telling Rodimus that he did actually miss wearing jewellery sometimes, because he’d stopped when it consistently made people misgender him, back before he’d gotten top surgery. Rodimus had _remembered._

Drift’s throat clogs up a little. “Thank you,” he gets out after a moment, tracing the beads with his fingers. It’s a lovely cuff, right up Drift’s alley, and definitely not something he expected to get. Not that he really knows _what_ he expected, but this is thoughtful. “This is – this is nice,” he says, lamely, not knowing really how to convey how it’s touched him.

Rodimus grins. “Success!” he cheers, but there is a hint of relief in his tone. “Next one?”

“How about we do yours?” Drift says. “There’re a couple for you – I’ll have to give Minimus his and Dominus’ later. Didn’t remember to on the solstice.”

Rodimus nods. “Don’t fret, they won’t care about it being a little late.” He turns his gaze to the pile beneath the tree. “The silver star wrapping paper, right?”

“Yeah,” Drift says, rising and retrieving the small collection he put under there. He passes a couple to Rodimus and puts the other two on the floor by the side table. “Here.”

Rodimus rips them open with aplomb. Inside the first, a burnt orange hoodie with red and yellow flames up the arms emerges from the wrapping paper. “Sweet!” Rodimus says, then he turns it around and sees _**RODIMUS**_ printed in white letters on the back. “Hey, was this custom?”

“Bit of a rush order, but yeah,” Drift grins, invigorated by the obvious delight Rodimus is exuding, seeing the way Rodimus is already pulling it on, uncaring of the tag still attached to the label. “Hold on, let me get the scissors.”

“This is _nice,”_ Rodimus says, running his hands over the front and dipping them into the large pocket across the belly. “You know me so well – it’s so _flashy._ Are these high-vis outlines on the flames?”

“Yep,” Drift says, coming back with the scissors. Rodimus leans his head forward and Drift snips off the label, pulling it away. “Now you can look like a pyromaniac Naruto any time you want.”

“ _Heeyyy,”_ Rodimus whines, but his grin is sharp and wide. “C’mon, let me have the other.”

Drift passes it to him, and by the time Rodimus has discarded the ripped wrapping paper to the floor and uncovered the lava lamp, he’s already pulling another present to him, this one in a green and white holly-printed wrapping paper that none of the other presents seem to share.

“Nice,” Rodimus says reading the description on the side of his new lava lamp. He glances over to Drift. “That’s from Minimus,” he says. “He sends his _Yuletide greetings_ along with it.”

_Minimus got me something?_ Drift thinks, touched. He’d gotten a present for Minimus – a bottle of mead that Minimus had lamented missing since it went out of fashion – but he hadn’t expected reciprocation from someone he’d not thought was aware that he and Rodimus were doing Christmas this year.

He opens Minimus’ gift with careful hands, revealing a heavy leather-bound book with embossed golden letters on the front and spine.

_**INTRODUCTIONE TO SORCEREE**_

_**DEI ATLAS** _

“I was wondering if he’d give you something like that,” Rodimus comments, leaning over Drift’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Drift asks.

“It’s quite an old book by now, but it's a good starting point for getting into magic,” Rodimus answers. “The real thing, all collated nicely, not stuff you have to pull from old texts and filter out through the antisemitism and racism and appropriation. Good overview of what it is, the laws it governs by, how it interacts with the world.” He thinks back, rubbing his chin. “Err… there’s a bit about non-human species? Mostly an overview of the most common ones. And a bit about significant days of the year. Some basic tips to get you started with magic – meditation, visualisation, symbolism, etc. No spells or rituals, I don’t think, but it’s a solid foundation to build on. Mags doesn’t keep crap in his library, and he certainly doesn’t give it out to beginners.”

“I’m not looking to become the next Gandalf,” Drift says, flipping open the book. It smells nice; slightly dusty printed pages, thick beneath his fingers in way that modern books aren’t.

Rodimus shrugs. “His way of welcoming you in,” he says. “Even if you end up like me – not a big practitioner – it’s a good basis of understanding for our point of view.”

_It means he likes you. It means he wants you to stay._ Drift hears the meaning underneath. “It’s nice,” he says, feeling the words inadequate. “I – I’m grateful.”

Rodimus pats his shoulder and lets Drift hide his face in his mug of coffee for a moment. “Come on,” he says when Drift puts the mug back down, “let’s open the rest.”

Drift ends up receiving, in addition to his bracelet: a new wallet, a dozen books (including a couple of graphic novels, a series he’d been meaning to get into, and a volume of poetry), a good-quality thick jacket in white and red, a pair of bookends with one having a figure of a knight and one with a dragon, a new case for his phone, a painting of a cliff landscape for his wall that judging by the textured surface is an original and not a print, a large box of chocolates, a stand mixer for his kitchen, and a soft cashmere scarf in a rich red-purple.

“One last thing,” says Rodimus, tearing Drift’s eyes away from the collection gathered on the floor, thoughts of how the _hell_ he was going to get it all home fading from his mind. Rodimus looks a little nervous as he holds out the present he’d put aside earlier. “Here.”

Drift takes it. It’s not heavy, and it gives a little under the wrapping paper, soft. He glances up to Rodimus’ hovering form, and back down to the present in his lap. With careful fingers, he teases the wrapping paper open.

“ _Oh,”_ he breathes. From the packaging, he pulls out a soft seal plush, the tag proclaiming the name of the city’s aquarium. “Oh, _Roddy.”_

“Is it the right one?” Rodimus asks, nervous. “I think it is, it should be at lea– ”

Drift, seal plush clutched in one hand, the other reaching out to grip Rodimus’ shoulder and pull him in, kisses him full on the mouth, and this time it’s not chaste. He pulls away after a moment, the softness of the fake fur in his hand a constant sensation he can’t tear his mind away from. “Thank you,” he tells Rodimus, “thank you, thank you, thank you – ”

Rodimus hugs him, tight, maybe a bit too tight, but Drift doesn’t care. Rodimus bought him that stupid seal he’d grieved over all those years ago –

“Merry Christmas,” Rodimus says into his hair, and Drift can hear his smile.

–

(“So, wait, did Minimus get _you_ anything?”

“Some fireworks, but he says I’m not allowed to use them ‘til New Year’s Eve.”

“Smart man. And what did you get him?”

“Hehe, a Vulpix plush.”

“… You know he’s actually going to kill you one day, right?”

“Hey, it was that or the Lucario body-pillow! I think he got off lightly, personally.”

“Why would anyone want a Lucario body-pillow? Who sat in a meeting and pitched that idea?”

“Beats me.”)

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I'm gonna write a fluffy Christmas fic!! :D
> 
> Drift: I want to talk about my tragic backstory
> 
> Me: B - but -
> 
> Drift: Also this will be twice as long as you think it's going to be
> 
> Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate, and a Happy New Year to all! Let us - tread _carefully_ into 2021, our fingers crossed behind our backs. Stay safe, everyone, and I wish you and yours fortune and health. See you next year :)
> 
> I can also be found on [tumblr](https://stairre.tumblr.com/). Come and say hello!


End file.
